


Storms & Sword Fights

by Glinda



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: AU, F/F, Planning Adventures, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-25
Updated: 2010-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glinda/pseuds/Glinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's the point in being adventurers without a decent nemesis to battle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storms & Sword Fights

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the who_like_giants ficathon, mainly due to fandom at large's lack of providing me with fic where Mercy and Rosita steal Jackson's TARDIS and run off to have epic femslash-y steampunk adventures. (This isn't that story, but I'll get round to it eventually)

The sky above is dark. Between the falling night and the gathering storm it was, Rosita mused, not exactly ideal ballooning weather. Frankly it's freezing this high above London, but when Rosita had left the house that morning she'd been more concerned about stopping Mercy from stealing the TARDIS than about wasting precious time grabbing a coat. She was regretting that decision now, though not too much, as Jackson had paused to grab his own and thus had ended up clinging to the access ladder as they sailed over the rooftops instead of safely in the basket like her. Well as safe as you could be trapped in a hot air balloon being piloted by a possibly evil genius who didn't know quite as much about piloting as she thought she did.

Hence why they were stuck in this bind, Mercy and Rosita in the basket trading taunts, while Jackson trailed along below them, clinging desperately to the ladder and unsuccessfully attempting to climb up to them. Apparently it was a lot harder than the books made it sound, which surprised Rosita not one jot, clearly the sort of person who wrote about high octane adventures and the kind that actually had them were very different.

Rosita could hear Jackson shouting something up to her, but the wind snatched away their meaning before they reached her ears. Probably something along the lines of 'don't worry, I'll save you' which was sweet of him she supposed, but she was more concerned with him falling off that ladder than any imminent rescue attempt. Most of her attention was focused on Mercy, who was brooding on the other side of the basket, doing that weird thing with her eyes that always made physicians recommend exorcism. When she got like this it usually preceded moments of divine brilliance and insight, or cold calculated cruelty, it was almost impossible to tell which beforehand. Either way Rosita was going to take the opportunity to get out of the ropes that bound her wrists. They were good knots, she acknowledged, they would have held most people that didn't consider getting tied up an occupational hazard and learned useful skills accordingly. Apparently, she thought with a wry smile, her life hadn't changed quite as dramatically in the last six months as it might first appear.

"I could cut the ropes, you know, let him fall. I'd be far away long before anyone noticed. Or I could just wait for his hands to freeze, so he falls off and it looks like an accident," Mercy comments contemplatively.

"That wouldn't be very wise with a witness present," Rosita responded, "Or do you plan to arrange a convenient accident for me as well."

"Oh I'm sure I can think of something fitting for you, Rosita," Mercy smiled, cruel and seductive, stepping forward lightly to cross the space between them before running one long scarlet nail up the length of Rosita's neck. Rosita firmly didn't think about Mercy's offer of an alliance or of how much she'd like to kiss that cruel smile off the other woman's mouth and instead grabbed the offending hand with her own unbound one. Another expression flickered briefly across Mercy's face, which Rosita recognised with a little horror was something akin to pleased pride as though she'd passed some kind of test, before settling into a cold curiosity.

"You never did tell me, why you pulled me out of the river at Christmas. For all you knew I was already dead and you had no reason to want me saved."

If she was cold before, Rosita felt colder now, memories rolling backwards to Christmas. The image of a too pale figure in a vivid red dress floating in the water, the strange desire that she shouldn't just be left there; Jackson's quiet agreement that whatever she'd done in life Miss Hartigan had deserved a decent burial. Rosita can still hear the retching sound as the supposed corpse had thrown up a good portion of the Thames onto its banks, along with Jed's steady litany of grumbles as he and Jackson carried her back to their home. She remembers too the long months of taking care of a woman bound to her bed to keep her from harm, raving incoherently for hours, eyes seeing terrible things far from that shadowed room. Watching her claw her way back out from the darkness behind her eyes, back into the world of the living and something like sanity. Rosita pulled herself out of her memories determinedly and forced her voice to stay light when she responded.

"Same reason you're not going to drop Mr Lake off the side of his own balloon, you'd miss us and we'd miss you. What's the point in being adventurers without a decent nemesis to spar with? Have you seen the quality of this town's mad scientists? Can barely manage a decent evil laugh let alone some witty repartee and being an actual challenge. Besides, the way I hear it you have one of the most brilliant minds on the planet. I've met some of those agents of the crown they'd send after to you, scintillating company they are not. This way is far more fun and you know it," she concluded firmly. Mercy's expression had softened a little but it remained a little odd so Rosita continued gentler, "besides, you're not the only one who wanted more than life threw at her. I signed on for saving the world for a reason, normal life is over-rated."

Mercy nodded slowly and they stepped apart releasing each other's wrists. It was almost a parting of equals she realised. Rosita wasn't entirely sure if she was more pleased or insulted by this new state of affairs but she was too cold to analyse the emotion too much. It was time to get them down from here.

~

Leaning over the parapet Rosita called down to Jackson who had managed to haul himself up another few rungs,

"I want a proper coat for this kind of thing, right? Proper tailored affair, warm with lots of pockets. Looking good chasing monsters is all well and good but its blooming freezing up here."

"Finest tailor in London," Jackson assured her, still swaying unnervingly below, though his expression clearly broadcast his internal thoughts at the timing of her request.

"Right, thank you. Now, give that sword up to me," cutting him off as he began to protest about indecorous behaviour for a woman or something similar, "do you want me to point out how high above the ground we currently are, or are you going to help me do something about it."

Clinging to the ladder had apparently done something for his sense as he passed the sword, still in its sheath, up to her fairly promptly after that.

Behind her, Rosita could hear Mercy muttering disparagingly about coats, and about offering whole kingdoms and the finery of empires for naught. Rosita did her best to hide her own smile at that, it was a shame really about the occasional bouts of frothing at the mouth insanity, because Mercy wasn't an unattractive woman and it wouldn't do for her to know how tempted Rosita really was.

Turning round to face Mercy again she drew the sword, took a not overly dramatic stance and pressed the tip to the other woman's throat.

"As I was saying; if you'd care to take us down a little so my associate can join us?" Mercy's eyes flicked briefly to the blade pressing gently at her throat and there was something of her old cold smirk about her lips that prompted Rosita to cut in, "and no phallic symbolism comments, alright? I've heard them all before."

Mercy merely raised her eyebrows sardonically, "I wouldn't _dream_ of it" she replied.

They stared at each other down the length of the blade for a long moment and Rosita was relieved to notice Mercy's eyes had returned to their natural dark brown. Eventually Mercy gave a long suffering sigh and took them down far enough that the buffeting wasn't adverse to Jackson getting up from his increasingly precarious position. Rosita could hear him clambering up now, but she didn't move to help or watch him, for all that she was beginning to be a little fond of Mercy, she still didn't trust her an inch.

"We could have done it you know," Mercy, comments quietly, "you and I could rule this whole _miserable_ planet, it would be easy."

"I know," Rosita replies and sees a tiny bit of her own fear reflected in Mercy's eyes as she nods in acknowledgement. Together they could grind this world beneath their heels if they chose to and it terrifies them both a little, as it should. She's known for a while that Jackson needs them, giving his life purpose and structure so he can hold everything together for Frederick, it only now occurs that they need him too. If only so that Rosita can continue to be the one to tell Mercy when to stop, and not become the one who looks at a map and points to a new country, a new continent, a new star and says 'let's conquer there next'.

"You're wasted as his assistant, Miss Farisi," Mercy declares unexpectedly louder, "you'd make an excellent lieutenant for my new world order."

Rosita hears Jackson snort in response and she knows the game is on again.

"But this is so much more fun," she says keeping her tone light.

"Exactly," cuts in Jackson, "now Miss Hartigan, if you would be so kind as to cease trying to convert my assistant to your dastardly scheme and take us in to land? I spotted a convenient park while I was below, that should do nicely."

Elegantly and carefully, mindful of the sword at her throat, Mercy steps away from the balloon's controls.

"Oh, be my guest Mr Lake, far be it for me to interfere with your flight plan," she responds sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

With Jackson's back turned it is all she can do to restrain her amusement into a mere quirk of her lips, to which Mercy responds with an, ever so elegant, disdainfully raised eyebrow. There is laughter in her eyes though, and Rosita treasures that victory more than the ones she must achieve to get Jackson aboard with this plan of theirs.

~

At night Rosita dreams of castles and plots, swordfights, sailboats and airships or stolen kisses with clouds below them like a sea for her to swim in, and doesn't think about the armies of metal men and steam-powered machines of war, fire and blood and the world and its riches at her feet.


End file.
